


with feeling

by acerbicsarcasm



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Ben is bemusedly watching his wreck of a twin try and impress a cute guy, Juno doesn't play piano, Nureyev plays violin, Other, musician au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-16 10:40:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18689848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acerbicsarcasm/pseuds/acerbicsarcasm
Summary: The other boy smiled, a sharp, cutting grin. Several silver piercings dangled from his ears and Juno had never seen that shade of lipstick, but damn he wanted to see a lot more of it now that he had. “Hello. Are you the accompanist? I thought today didn’t work for you.”Ben popped around the doorframe with a smile. “Hey! No, he can’t pl —”“Play today,” Juno interrupted, grasping his twin by his collar and tugging him backward a few feet. Ben made a strangled sound that might have been surprise or just a result of being manhandled. “Today doesn’t work."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sincere thanks to @spicybruha on Tumblr for letting me write this fic based on one of their posts! All mistakes and terrible editing are mine.
> 
> I've been working on this as a bit of a goofy break from a way more serious Erin Marshall D'Arc fic (the Promised Land episodes) that I've had sitting in my drafts for a while... hopefully I'll finish it soon...
> 
> Also, disclaimer: don't try and learn the piano three weeks before a performance. Just don't. Trust me, as a flautist and a pianist, you can bs your way through many things in life. Music ain't one of them.

“Cut it out.”

“Cut what out?”

Juno ground his teeth together, deliberately not looking Ben in the eye. He dug the tacks into the cork board with more force than the paper warranted. “You know what I mean.”

“I have no idea, Super-Steel,” Ben sang. “I’m not the detective.”

“I’m not a — argh!” The flyer tore in the corner. Juno ripped it off the noticeboard and pulled another from the stack he had wedged under his arm, trying to line it up straight. _HYPERION ACADEMY OF FINE ARTS DANCE EVENING,_ the flyer read in bold letters, and Juno was sick of looking at them.

“Watch it,” Ben said accusingly, “I don’t want to print more.”

“Yeah yeah, sorry,” Juno grumbled, and looked back. How the hell was Ben still spinning? It made him sick to watch. “Cut it out. I’m serious.”

Ben laughed and kept twirling, adding to his momentum with an expert bend of his knees.

“You called me all the way out here to make me do this myself, is that it?”

“I’m keeping you entertained,” Ben said, but Juno could tell he was starting to crack. He’d been spinning non-stop for almost a full minute now. He had to get dizzy eventually. “And the — food’s better here too.”

“Cut it out.”

“Fine.” Ben stopped, a little too abruptly, and stumbled, clutching the wall beside the noticeboard, eyes squeezed shut. “Only because I want to. Not because you told me.”

Juno huffed and tucked the rest of the flyers under his arm. He only had five or so left. They’d been doing this for almost two hours now. “Where do you want the rest of these? I can take them to the Academy if you want.”

“Are a bunch of muscle-heads going to want to come and see a dance evening?” Ben teased, stumbling after his brother on wobbly legs.

“Hey, we have culture.”

“Yeah, if you mean the colonies of bacteria in your hair from shoving each other’s heads in the toilet.”

“That’s a tradition,” Juno defended. “You guys have your traditions here, like not saying Mac—”

“OKAY!” Ben yelped, staggering the few feet to slap a hand over Juno’s mouth. “We don’t say that here, we don’t say that — hey!” He whipped his hand away, staring at the bite marks in his palm. “What are you, five?”

“Not anymore, thank god.”

They walked in silence for a couple of seconds, through the winding, toweringly graceful buildings that comprised the Arts Academy. Juno always got lost here; the only building he never failed to find was the cafeteria. He just had to follow the smell.

“I reckon we should put some by the practice rooms,” Ben said, changing tack abruptly and pointing. Juno grunted, and followed.

“How are the rehearsals doing?” he asked as he half-jogged to keep up with his brother’s footsteps.

Ben’s step immediately became bouncier. “Really well. We’re still waiting on costumes to come in, but all the choreography is finalised and we got lucky with Maeri Estra being in town, she’s a real genius —”

Juno stopped listening, watching the way his twin practically leaped down the stairs without pausing his ecstatic monologue. It’d been good, changing schools. This was a place that was made for Ben. It was … colourful. The music, the acting, the dance, the buildings, the food. It matched Benzaiten better than Juno wanted to admit. It also got him out of the house.

Juno had tried to convince Ben to live on-campus, but Ben had asked why he should bother with a tiny dorm room when the commute from home wasn’t that bad. When Juno mentioned Sarah, Ben turned up the music and started dancing. Obnoxiously. It ended the conversation quickly.

It had taken less than three days after Juno’s acceptance letter to the Police Academy had arrived for him to pack up and move the couple of miles into the slate-grey campus buildings, into cramped rooms and a bastard of a roommate and food that tasted like it had already been digested. But it was away from Sarah Steel, and that was all he needed. And maybe he matched too.

Ben grabbed Juno’s arm, and Juno flinched. He hadn’t been paying attention. “Hear that?”

“What?” Juno tried to shake off his twin’s grip, and the unease that came with the unexpected contact.

“It’s Debussy,” Ben said, and immediately began to move. They were technically the same height, he and Juno, but every inch of Ben was lean and toned, intimate control of the tiniest motions. And when he danced, even like this, in jeans and a button-down and hand-me-down leather shoes, it was fluid with the kind of grace that he might have stolen from the wind. Careless and elegant.

Juno watched, eyebrow cocked skeptically. He could see the practice rooms, rows of little air conditioned cubicles stacked atop one another on the edge of campus. There was the outline of a piano in one of the windows; drums in another. From somewhere, the sound of a single violin drifted to them, unaccompanied except for Ben’s dance.

Eventually the song changed, something that wasn’t designed for dancing, and Ben came back to earth with a grin on his face. He snatched the flyers from Juno’s listless hands and waved them in front of his face. “C’mon, Super-Steel.”

Juno followed more slowly. This piece was quieter, sweeter. It drifted like some long-forgotten melody over the paths they followed through a well-cultivated square and to the practice rooms. Melancholy.

“Are you coming? Or did you just show up to make me do this myself?”

Juno shook himself. He was standing, staring listlessly at the door that the violin must be coming from. There was a silhouette, tall and lean, sleeves rolled up and hips swaying slightly with the music, violin tucked delicately under their chin. The fingers that danced across the strings were spidery and Juno … Juno liked them.

Ben sighed and tacked up another flyer, and Juno winced when he tapped the tacks into the wall. He tapped again. Then banged.

The music stopped, discordant.

The door opened, and there he was. Tall, taller than Juno by several inches, wearing navy slacks and an untucked white shirt rolled up to his elbows, still holding the violin loosely in one hand.

Juno caught his eyes and stopped breathing.

The other boy smiled, a sharp, cutting grin. Several silver piercings dangled from his ears and Juno had never seen that shade of lipstick, but _damn_ he wanted to see a lot more of it now that he had. “Hello. Are you the accompanist? I thought today didn’t work for you.”

Ben popped around the doorframe with a smile. “Hey! No, he can’t pl —”

“Play today,” Juno interrupted, grasping his twin by his collar and tugging him backward a few feet. Ben made a strangled sound that might have been surprise or just a result of being manhandled. “Today doesn’t work.”

The violinist paused, seeming to have recovered from the shock of _oh god there’s two of them_ that Juno had learned to recognise so well, then gestured with his bow. “So you’re here for some other reason?”

“Ha, yeah,” Juno stuttered, and held up one of the fliers. “Helping advertise for the dance night.”

“I see,” the violinist said. He turned and placed his violin and bow on the table behind him, closing his sheet music. Rolling his shoulders and shaking out his hands a little, he turned back to Juno.

Juno tried to concentrate.

“So when would work? You saw the dates in my email?”

“Yeah, of course,” Juno said. There was an awkward pause. “Though maybe you could remind me of when they were? You know, I get a lot of emails for accompany-ing gigs.”

Ben, mostly recovered from being dragged backwards by his shirt, turned so the violinist couldn’t see his face, and mouthed, _What?_ in exaggerated anger. At least, Juno hoped it was exaggerated.

The violinist smiled again. “Of course. The performance for the museum’s gala is in three weeks. I’d like to rehearse twice before then, if possible. If you’re —” He glanced at the flier clutched in Juno’s fist, slowly becoming more and more creased by the second, “— busy this afternoon, would next Wednesday work? I can book out practice room C and we can have two hours to ourselves.”

 _Two hours to ourselves._ The words were innocuous. So was the tone. But Juno’s head spun. Wednesday. Eight days. “Sure,” he found himself saying, without deciding to. “Wednesday.”

“Wonderful, I’ll send you an email when I’ve booked the time.”

He panicked. “Wait!”

A pause in the doorway. The violinist, with that sharp-toothed smile, turned back to him, earpiece swinging gently. “Yes?”

Juno fumbled, tugging his phone from his back pocket. It was a brick, an old flip-phone, but he stabbed at buttons until he got where he wanted. “I’ll text you instead. Faster than email, am I right?”

Ben’s face was a shade of red Juno had never seen, laughter constrained to bursting. His slight head-shake spoke volumes. _As if you know how to use email._

The violinist accepted Juno’s phone and typed his details with meticulous care. Juno watched, rapt.

“There we are,” the violist said, handing it back, and Juno glanced down quickly. _Rex Glass_ , and a phone number. “Send me a message sometime today and I’ll send you the list of pieces. Will that work?”

Juno nodded. With Ben staring at him, he couldn’t bring himself to say anything else.

“Excellent. Then I’ll see on Wednesday, Mr Rose.”

Ben snorted, but managed to transform it into a strangled cough.

“See you then,” Juno breathed.

The door closed.

 

___

 

“Hoooooooooly shit,” Ben sang on the walk back to Juno’s busted old car, sat in the empty Tuesday evening parking lot. “What was that? An accompaniest, Mr Rose? How could I not have known you were such a lady of so many talents?”

“Shut it,” Juno growled.

“He definitely did have style,” Ben mused. “I didn’t know theatre kids were your type.”

“They aren’t,” Juno ground out between gritted teeth.

“He definitely seemed like it,” Ben said, “your type, that is. From the way you were falling over yourself for him —”

“I was not —”

“Mr Rose has a _cruuuuuuuuush_ —”

“We aren’t _talking about this_ —”

“A violinist stole his heart with his stunning music —”

“I said shut it —”

“And Mr Rose fell head over heels for this mysterious musician —”

“Benten, I _swear_ —”

“Alright, alright.” But he didn’t stop skipping. “So since when do you play piano well, Super-Steel? Picking up skills at the police academy aside from how to dunk someone in a toilet?”

Juno furrowed his eyebrows. “I don’t.”

That stopped Ben hard in his tracks. “You don’t play? Like, at all?”

“Nope. Haven’t played since Hyperion Grammar stopped doing free piano lessons.”

“But you — we were _eleven_ when that happened! You’re going to leave Mr Musician without an accompanist! At the gala!”

“I am not,” Juno snapped. “How hard can it be, really? Just banging away at some keys and letting someone else do all the playing?”

Ben’s face fell. “Oh boy. Oh _boy_.”

 

___

 

Juno would never say it, but Ben was — this time, and this time only — right.

He’d texted this Rex Glass and the list of pieces were … well, nothing someone like him recognised. Some of the names he knew, Bach and … nope, that was the only one he recognised.

Of course, step one was to look it up and find some cheat site somewhere with easy versions. They had those for everything, right?

Ben had snorted when he’d said as much. “Not music, Super-Steel. Music and dancing, two things you can never cheat at. Not even you.”

So Juno gritted his teeth and looked for the sheet music. He found it. And painstakingly, he wrote out each letter beneath the notes. It took him hours for the first piece. He could barely remember the faint memories of a stern piano teacher trying to corral thirty ten-year-olds to sit still, reciting the names of notes and singing that stupid doe song.

 _Wednesday._ He was never going to make this in time. There was no way.

 

___

 

“So meeting Mr Musician today, huh?” Ben’s voice crackled over the comms on Wednesday afternoon, and Juno could hear the laughter.

Juno ground his teeth so loudly he was certain his twin would be able to hear it over the line. “No.”

“Oh you’re not? I thought —”

“I can’t,” Juno said, checking around the cafeteria to make sure no one was listening to the freshman phoning his brother. “Injured my hand.” Even though he knew Ben couldn’t see, he waved his left hand, pinky wrapped in a very unnecessary splint. He didn’t know why he’d insisted on wearing it; in case Glass saw him ( _please he really wanted to see Glass)_ and caught him in the lie _(that would be okay, he could say he was too injured for the gala, make up something)?_

“Oh, boo-hoo. No date then?”

“It wasn’t going to be a,” Juno dropped his voice, “ _date_.”

“I dunno, it sounded like you were pretty ready for it to be a date.”

“He just needs an accompanist!”

“He sure does. And the sooner you tell him you aren’t one, the sooner he can prepare for the actual performance.”

Juno opened his mouth to snap back, but nothing came out.

“Yeah,” said Ben into the silence. “Cut it out with this selfish little crush, Juno. He needs someone who can play, properly. How about you ask him out like a normal person?”

Juno groaned and dropped his head to the table, letting the comms fall to the tabletop with a clatter. Someone from the next table over looked at him accusingly, but he didn’t care. He was screwing this up. Marvellously. He was so screwed.

 

___

 

Saturday should have been Juno’s study day. He hadn’t been doing any of the work he should have been this week. He persisted every night with a rickety old keyboard that he’d dragged up to his dorm, plugging in earphones and tapping away at plastic keys until long after his roommate had gone to bed.

It had taken four days, but he could barely play one of the eight pieces Glass had listed.

Juno rubbed his eyes. He glanced at the clock, coffee perched on the edge of the keyboard, his earphones digging into his temples after a whole night of wearing them. His roommate wasn’t up yet.

He stared out the window listlessly. That song, that damn song that Glass had been playing when he and Ben walked by traipsed through his mind, round and round and round in an endless circle of soaring melody that had wormed his way into his brain and stuck, no matter how hard he tried to dislodge it.

With a sigh, Juno shuffled the pages in front of him. There were so many goddamn pages. Sheet music was not compact, and now that they were smeared with pencil notes and key marks and all Juno’s insane scribbling, they were even harder to read.

Juno tapped out with one finger, eyes closed, listening to the way Glass had played, hips swaying, in the back of his mind. He tapped his left hand too. He’d listened to the pieces, of course, found recordings online, but nothing sounded like Glass sounded. He wanted to hear that again, the shiver up his spine when those top notes were coaxed from strings with deft fingers, and —

He hit a wrong note. And paused. And fumbled, eyes still closed, stretching out a thumb. Hit the right note. Pressed play on the memory of Glass in his mind, and kept going.

That bastard of a roommate woke up a couple of hours later, dragged himself out of the bunk with a moan and the stench of unwashed teeth. Juno just tossed on a cardigan and kept going. He paused to listen to recordings, giving up on the sheet music all together. In a couple of hours, he could stumble through the accompaniment, listening to how it should sound in his head while his hands fumbled for the notes to make it happen. He played along with a recording he’d found online, going by ear.

One piece down, finally. He stood up, made another cup of coffee. Sat back down, bringing up a recording of the next piece. He tried to picture how Glass would play it, sensually and dramatically. Or maybe that’s how everyone played the violin, what did he know?

Juno tried to keep that sound in his mind and played along.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Juno arrived early. He hoped Glass had gotten there first to warm up; he’d been right. Juno sat just out of sight, off to the side of the window, and leaned close, listening to the music he’d learned to know so well over the last five days. Glass played well. So well. Better than anyone Juno had ever heard, in any of those recordings. He had to be Juno’s age, a couple years older at most. How had he managed to get this good in that time? It was almost no time at all.

Watching the seconds tick down on his comms, Juno rapped on the door to practice room C exactly on the hour. The music stopped. The silence it left was eerily oppressive.

But when the door opened, Juno found himself staring at the most blinding smile he’d ever seen.

“Ah, Dahlia! Come in, come in. My apologies, I took the liberty of warming up before you arrived.”

Wait a second. What the _hell_ kind of name was Dahlia Rose? Juno almost wrinkled his nose at this accompanist’s name ( _it sounded fake, really_ ) before he remember that it was supposed to be him.

“Good to see you again … Rex.” First name basis? It sounded odd and flat in Juno’s ears.

That sharp smile spread.

Juno stood in the doorway for longer than he should have. Eventually he cleared his throat and edged around Glass, folding himself awkwardly onto the piano stool. He slid back the cover over the keys, not looking at Glass very deliberately. Discretely, he tested the keys. It was heavier than the keys of the keyboard he’d been practicing on.

A note sounded in the tiny room.

“Do you need to warm up?” Rex asked.

Juno coughed, awkwardly settling his hands in a relatively professional manner atop the keys. “I should be fine. I did some — stretches on the way here,” he finished lamely.

Something in his gut told him Glass was enjoying this far too much. “Do you need the sheet music? My accompanists in the past brought their own, I don’t have copies —”

“That’s fine,” Juno said quickly. “Let’s just — get started, you know?” He watched Rex pick his bow up again, watched him settle the violin under his chin.

Rex grinned. It was somehow unsettling. It was also, somehow, a ridiculous turn-on. Juno cleared his voice and looked down at the keys.

The first notes of a piece drifted from Rex’s strings. _Easy_. Juno knew this one; he could remember every note of the recording he had listened to as he fell asleep with his head on the keyboard. He nodded for the first couple of beats, and chimed in with the first piano notes a few bars in.

It fit. He had no idea how in hell it did, but these notes that he could see so clearly behind his eyelids fit with the melody Rex was drawing out from his instrument, somehow. Juno stumbled, of course. Most of the time he had practiced this he had been sleep-deprived and hyped on so much coffee (and sometimes Bailey’s) that his fingers shook. The keys were heavier than the keyboard he had practiced on, and occasionally he skipped notes in a chord. Every couple lines, whenever the music jumped octaves, there was the slightest hesitation as Juno struggled to find the next note, and he picked up his line a half-beat into the change in melody.

He was breathless by the end of the piece. His legs were shaking.

Rex lowered the violin. “Apologies for my dynamics, I always struggle with the nuances in the higher notes. And my vibrato! Atrocious. Not the best first impression on my behalf.”

Juno struggled to come up with something to say next. “It was fine,” he finally said, lamely.

“Hopefully I’ll have that run in bar sixty-two cleaned up before the gala,” Rex lamented, gesturing with the bow. “Which shall we do next?”

“Uhm,” Juno said, looking down at his hands to buy a moment, “whichever you might need the most practice on?”

“Ah,” Rex said, nodding, “the Bach it is then.” He tucked the violin under his chin and waited. The silence stretched. “Do you need a copy of the music, or …”

Juno flushed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You know, it was on the tip of my fingers, but which one is it? Could you give me the first couple of notes of your melody?”

Rex nodded. “Of course.” He stood up straight, closed his eyes, and drew the bow across the strings. Juno couldn’t help himself — he watched the way Rex’s fingers danced along the fingerboard, the flex of his forearm as he drew the bow, the sway of his hips as he leaned into the notes as it if the little extra movement would coax the notes to their fullest tone.

It took a moment for Juno to realise the music had stopped. He was still staring at Rex’s hips.

“Does that jog your memory?”

“Yeah,” muttered Juno, wrenching his gaze back to the keys. “Yep, I think I got it.” He placed his fingers on the first chord and sounded it experimentally. It sounded right. “I got it.”

Juno played the introduction, several bars of chords in the left hand and runs in the right hand, and finally Rex joined with the melody. Juno shut his eyes and didn’t look at Rex’s hands, fumbling his way through changes in key and the swoops in pitch, letting his fingers feel the way.

 

___

 

“I'll get there in the end,” Rex said, after they’d been through the entire repertoire three times. “Hopefully before the gala. Do you have the email with the details, or shall I text that to you too?”

Juno looked at him sharply. “I have the email,” he said, “but if you’d like to text them too that would be good. In case anything has changed.”

“Of course,” Rex agreed, packing away his violin. Juno saw the name written along the side of the case. _Perseus Shah_. There was a pocket set inside, where Juno glimpsed rosin, pens, keys, and more unusual items; a craft cutter, bobby pins, and a tube of lipstick.

“A borrowed violin?” Juno asked, nodding his head to the name.

“Second hand,” Rex said breezily. He flipped the snaps closed and slung it over his shoulders, like a backpack, music in hand. He paused. “Is the sustaining pedal broken on this piano? You should really mention that to the administrations.”

“The —” Juno snapped his mouth closed before he asked. “I don’t think so.”

“Ah, my mistake,” Rex said breezily, and tossed a lazy, “See you at the gala!” over his shoulder.

 

___

 

Juno jabbed numbers into his phone, and gritted his teeth at the ringing tone. The moment it was picked up, Juno asked, “What’s a sustaining pedal?”

“Juno, where did you get this number, I’m at work —”

“I’m a detective Sasha, give me some credit. What’s a sustaining pedal?”

A sigh crackled over the line. “Detective in training, Juno. Do you have any context for me? Sustaining petal what?”

“In a piano.”

“I don’t play the piano anymore, Juno. We both stopped.”

“Yeah, but you were better than me at it,” he admitted. “What’s the sustaining pedal?”

“Wait, give me a second.” There was the sound of the phone being put down, and the distant sound of voices echoing over the line. “Yes, sir?”

Then, even more distant, a faint, jovial voice. “ _We’ll need this spun properly, the Venusians aren’t keen on this getting out._ ”

“Of course, I understand.”

“ _This is sensitive, Wire. Discretion is necessary._ ”

“You can count on me.”

A moment passed, and Sasha picked up the phone again. “Did you hear any of that?”

“You’re in charge of Dark Matters spinning the infiltration of the archives and the stealing of the Venusian census files. Why do they trust an intern with that kind of thing?”

She ignored the question. “All of that is confidential Juno, and I hope you’ll remember it.”

“If you explain a sustaining pedal, it’s forgotten,” Juno said.

Sasha sighed. “It’s the right-hand pedal under a piano, that you press with your foot. It removes the damping on the piano strings, so the notes blend and the overall tone of the piece is smoother.”

“Right,” Juno said, and something in his gut sank. “Thanks.”

“Confidential Juno, don’t —”

He’d already hung up, dialling a new number. The ringing tone went longer this time. When it was finally picked up, Juno was greeted with a yawn. “What’s up?”

“Benten,” Juno said, lowering his voice, “can you get me into the practice rooms tonight?”

“Oooh!” Ben’s voice was suddenly much more awake. “That’s not allowed!”

“I know.”

“Excellent,” Ben said happily. “I’ll meet you at the cafeteria for dinner?”

 

___

 

Juno inhaled food like it was the first time he’d ever seen it. He forgot, after weeks and weeks of cold sandwiches and soup that looked halfway between slop and vomit, that food actually came in other forms. The pizza served at the Academy of Fine Arts tasted like pure ambrosia.

He made his way through about another five pieces while Ben, reading-glasses perched on the edge of his nose, flipped through some required history reading, lasagne mostly forgotten on his plate, getting cold. Juno waited until Ben turned a page, and used the motion to mask sneaking the remnants off Ben’s plate an onto his own. He polished it off and then asked, “So, you got a plan?”

Ben put down the book and folded up his glasses, hooking them into the neck of his shirt. “So what do you need the practice rooms for anyway?”

“Hey, you didn’t ask that on the phone.”

“Yeah, you’re easier to interrogate in person,” Ben said, waving a hand. “On the phone you’ll just hang up on me.”

Juno pushed his chair up as if to leave. Benten laughed and grabbed his wrist. “Okay, okay. I’ll take you to the practice rooms. Is there going to be a violinist waiting for us? Are you planning a tryst behind the piano forte?”

“Ben, I hate you so much.”

“Oh, you need me.”

“I swear to you, I will sneak over there myself and when I get caught, I’m telling them I’m Benzaiten Steel.”

“Oi!” Ben raised an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“Impersonate you when I’m caught out-of-bounds? Want to bet?”

Ben looked down at his plate, and saw it was empty. He paused for a moment, but seemed to think he’d somehow finished his food while reading. “Alright,” he said, “let’s go around the back.”

They snuck out the window of the bathroom, through the trees lining the library, and around to the practice rooms. Ben jimmied open a window, and climbed through, lanky and lean. Juno grumbled the whole time, heaving himself through and tumbling to the floor.

“So,” said Ben with a whisper, “What are we stealing?”

“What?”

“What are we stealing?” Ben started pacing, looking around. “I mean, a snare is probably big for the window but if we broke open the door —”

“I’m just here to practice,” Juno hissed, sitting behind the piano with the flourish he had perfected from watching all the videos to learn the melodies of Rex’s pieces. He set his fingers on the keys, and then felt around the ground for the pedal Sasha had mentioned. There it was. His keyboard didn’t have that.

“You’re practicing?” Benten’s voice was incredulous and much, much louder than before. Juno glared at him. “You’re kidding me.”

“Ben, what am I going to steal from a music school?”

He pouted. “I don’t know. Harps are expensive, you could pawn one. So are flutes. Actually,” he said, “flutes are probably easier to carry.”

Juno gaped. “Benten Steel,” he said, “were you really coming along to commit petty theft with me?”

“It’s not petty,” Ben defended, “you could make a good couple hundred bucks off a good instrument.”

Juno shook his head. “I can’t believe you.”

“You’re always good at finding trouble,” Ben said, leaning against the wall. “I was ready to get into some.”

“Well, you’re going to be disappointed,” Juno said, and tested the sustain pedal. He played a few experimental notes. They all blended together. He played the introduction to that Bach piece that Peter had claimed to struggle with. Eventually the noise got so muddied that he had to lift the pedal.

“Oh boy, I’m already disappointed,” Ben said plaintively. “I’m going to have a look around. Enjoy ...” He gestured at the keys. “This.”

Juno shrugged, and turned back to the keys.

It took a couple hours, but eventually Juno got the hang of taking his foot off the pedal at the end of each phrase. It was clunky, sure. But it was better than nothing.

Around two am, Ben slunk back into the room. Juno didn’t ask about the thing over his shoulder, and his grin.

“Had enough?” Ben asked. He came up onto his toes and gave a spin. “What’s this for?”

Juno didn’t answer, and closed the piano quietly.

“Wait,” Benten said, coming to an abrupt stop, the black case over his shoulder set swinging. “This doesn’t have anything to do with that violinist still?”

“I told you Ben, I’m not here for a _tryst_ —”

“Of course you aren’t,” Ben snorted, “as if _you_ could be romantic enough for that. I meant, are you still playing at the gala?”

“Yes.” Juno began the climb out of the window again.

Ben followed, dropping to the ground with cat’s grace. “You’re kidding. Can I please get tickets to this ‘Juno Steel Crashes and Burns in Front of his Crush’ show? Actually, would you mind giving him my number before that, I don't mind being a rebound.”

“ _Ben!”_

“Sorry, sorry.” They snuck through the bushes for a few moments in quiet, and then Ben said, “Do you reckon the type of people who go to galas take bets?”


	3. Chapter 3

Benzaiten Steel owned a suit. Juno Steel did not. He had his dress uniform of course, but he figured that wouldn’t be the appropriate attire for a museum gala. So Friday night saw him squeezing into Ben’s jacket, cursing the fact that it was just ever so slightly too tight around the shoulders. Juno was stout, built for the back-street brawls he’d frequented so many times in the years before the Police Academy, and now built for the fitness tests that he had to pass each term. That meant he was _not_ the same shape as a dancer.

The gala was in its beginning phases, some of Hyperion’s elite drifting in through the main double doors with bejewelled plus-ones on their arms, empty laughter drifting through the street. Juno had parked halfway up the block and walked. He approached the door, tugging at the tie he’d borrowed. “Hi,” he said to a woman standing at the door, checking ID cards. “I’m the accompanist?”

"Name?"  
"Rose?"

She nodded, and handed him a card on a lanyard. “The prep room is in the geology wing. Head through to the right, down the hall, there’ll be a labelled door on the left-hand side.”

“Thanks.” Juno cast a glance around, and the flow of people coming through the door buffeted him through the doorway. He slipped away, sparing a glance at the main room for only a second, chandeliers casting bright, glittering light over the milling crowd in elaborate fashions and glass cases lining the walls and reflecting the murmured conversation that was rising like a tide.

The hallway to the right was quieter. His footsteps echoed, clicking on the timber flooring — of course Ben had insisted he borrow the heels to match the suit — and he glanced through each door as he went. One was for security, obviously, another two empty. A third was an office, the door closed. The fourth was closed, but the faint sound of instruments tuning could be heard. Juno passed his card over the sensor on the doorframe, and it clicked open.

Inside were a set of chairs in the corner, a couple instrument cases spread out. A string quartet was tuning in one corner, and Rex, violin in hand, wandered along the side of the room, inspecting some of the geological specimens behind their protective glass. He saw Juno’s reflection in the glass and spun.

“Ah, Dahlia!” he exclaimed, and Juno stared, shoving the lanyard and key into his slacks pocket. Something about Rex’s demeanour was … different. Ever so slightly. “We’ll be up in about forty minutes, are you ready?” His attention switched. “Goodness, you’re certainly here to make a statement.”

Juno flushes when he realised Rex was looking pointedly at his heels. “They match,” he said defensively.

“They do indeed,” agreed Rex. He placed his violin on a table that had been brought in to hold instruments and their cases. “Apologies, I get antsy before a … performance.”

“Don’t worry,” Juno said, trying to sound reassuring. “I know the feeling.”

“And I thought you had ‘accompany-ing gigs’ lined up around the block,” Rex said, and Juno realised that the smile he had on was teasing.

“What were you looking at?” Juno said, swapping subjects as quickly as he could. He gestured to the displays. There were raw stones along one wall, describing the geological processes that formed them, and the other three were examples of stonework from throughout history. Juno squinted at the nearest display. It was a set of cut gemstones, arranged in by colour in a rainbow. The description talked about chemical structures and colour refractions. Or something.

“Ah,” said Rex, moving behind Juno to peer over his shoulder. “They’re gorgeous, aren’t they? True craftsmanship.”

Juno grunted, moving to the next display. This one was primarily jewellery pieces, each listing important dates of when they had changed hands between important families or been donated from private collections. He whistled appreciatively, stabbing a finger at a necklace in the centre of the circular display. “That’s pretty.”

“It’s more than _pretty_ ,” Rex said, and Juno watched his reflection. He was wearing deep purple lipstick, and Juno watched the reflection of those lips as he talked about the piece. “Incredible! This, Juno, is the Iris of Jupiter. It was set in the current form more than a hundred years ago, using jewellery techniques that were cutting-edge for their time. It’s a unique piece, several dozen years ahead of its time. If you move your head, you can see the slivers of topaz through the centre …”

Juno stopped listening. The purple of the central gem matched Rex’s makeup. The line of delicate, pin-prick sized diamonds surrounding it matched the shimmering line Rex had drawn around his eyes.

He shook himself. _Ah, shit_. He was in this far, far too deep. Maybe he could ask Rex out after the gala, ask if he was hungry. Would anywhere be open after this? Maybe they could wander the gala itself afterwards. Which one was more likely to give him a chance to try that lipstick on his own lips?

“Pretty,” Juno repeated, when he realised Rex had finished.

He laughed. “Yes, I guess it rather is. Hardly compares to some, though.”

The room was quiet. The quartet that had been tuning in the corner had left through another door, likely to perform. Juno and Rex stared at each other for a long moment.

Juno coughed. “So we’re up next?”

Rex waved to a small booklet on the edge of the table, beside his violin. “We are indeed. Hopefully you did your stretches on the way here.” There was a faint smile to the words.

Picking up the program, Juno thumbed through it idly. It listed four acts, the first a quartet, the second listed as ‘Duke’. Juno laughed. “What kind of a stage name is Duke?” he asked.

“Well, it sounds better than ‘Rex’. A little less like the singer of a rock band.”

“I didn’t know classical musicians had stage names.”

“Oh, it’s just another name,” Rex said, waving a hand. “Names are simply signifiers of something more.”

Juno quirked an eyebrow. “Like ‘Persesus’?” he asked, glancing at the violin case.

“It’s second-hand,” Rex repeated, with the slyest smile yet.

Shaking his head, Juno wandered to the centre of the room where they were waiting. There was a pillar of a case in the centre, left empty.

“Did you hear about that?” Rex asked. Juno shook his head. “It was quite the scandal this morning. The case was found broken into.”

“Not broken into,” Juno said absently, standing on tip-toes to get a look at the top of the case. When that failed, he stooped and looked upwards. “Cut into. Perfectly circular.”

“Hmm,” Rex said, drifting away. “They have a lot of high-quality pieces here. Have you seen —”

“Where’s this one now?” Juno asked, not moving away from the empty central case.

“Oh, that one? I think it’s on display tonight. Some donor or rather, terribly boring.”

“They put it on display after an attempt to steal it?”

Rex shrugged. “I believe the museum was already intending to display it. And it will be better watched in the centre of the gala, wouldn’t it?”

“It would be,” Juno murmured, tracing the shape of the circular cut on the side of the glass. He glanced through the case to Rex, who was withdrawing his violin from its case, tuning it and checking his bow.

“Are you ready, Mr Rose?” Rex asked, finishing his final little practice note with a flourish.

Juno rolled his wrists, a move he usually made before a good boxing session. Though boxing never made his gut clench like this. “Whenever you are, Mr Glass.”

 

___

 

The gala was in full swing, the clink of glasses and laughter echoing through the room. Juno emerged half a step behind Rex and had to blink at the sudden brightness of the main hall.

The small stage, set off to the side, was raised about a foot off the ground. It had already been set up for them, a single music stand placed in the centre and the piano stool set in front of the keys. Juno took the seat, rolling his wrists.

Rex started playing, starting with the first piece that gave Juno three bars to prepare before his first chords. And then they were off.

Everything around him narrowed, the sounds of the crowd fading away as he focused on Rex’s playing, fitting the notes under his fingers like a puzzle piece alongside Rex’s melody. They played in the same order they had practiced, Rex’s fingers flitting over strings and Juno’s frantically dashing over keys. He stumbled, but right now it was just the two of them, ignoring all of the people dressed surrounding them with sparkling drinks in their hand, playing music.

Juno wanted to remember every moment of this. He wanted to immortalise every note, every sway in Rex’s steps, wanted to imprint every twitch and motion and sweeping crescendo that made Rex’s lanky limbs stiff with determination. He wanted to remember the way he finally got the fucking sustain pedal to do what he wanted.

He wanted every damn second to last forever.

Eventually, Rex finished his last piece with a flourish, and his bows were extravagant and sweeping. The applause was polite and adoring.

Juno was breathless and sat, staring, at the piano in a deliberate attempt to avoid looking directly at Rex for too long. He waited until the applause had died, and stepped off the stage. He turned back, reaching out a hand to Juno.

Juno blushed, but took Rex’s hand as he stepped down uncertainly in heels that were too damn tall for him. Benten had a knack for these things that Juno had never learned. With Rex to help him, Juno managed without stumbling too much.

Rex’s face was flush when they returned to the small prep room down the hall. “Well,” he said, “I feel like that went well.”

“Yeah,” said Juno, and realised Rex was still holding his hand.

“You did fabulously,” Rex said, setting his violin down on the table. “I’m very grateful you agreed to do this on such short notice.”

“I — sure.”

“And I do hope your finger doesn’t hurt too terribly.”

“I — my what?”

“Your finger,” Rex repeated, holding up the hand he held. “You had to miss our first appointment, if I remember correctly.” His smile was sharp, and not terribly sympathetic.

“Yeah,” said Juno, feeling stupid. He took his hand back and turned away from Rex. “It only took a couple days.”

Rex adjusted his shirt. “Well, I’ve been promised a few free drinks,” he said, “and I’m certain they can extend that to my loyal accompanist. Shall we?”

“Sure,” Juno stuttered out, and followed Rex out through the other door, and down the hallway, into the swirl of people. Rex plucked two glasses of champagne from a passing server and passed one to Juno, knocking them together gently in a celebratory cheers.

“I’d better fulfil my duty of pleasant conversation with the director until the next act,” Rex said, with a sarcastic roll of his eyes. “It was terribly difficult getting the invite from him. Enjoy yourself. You are dressed for the occasion.”

Juno watched Rex stride away. He’d been so swept up in adrenaline and … something else, he’d completely forgotten his cover story regarding his hand. He cursed to himself and took a swig of the champagne. It was sweeter than he had expected. He grimaced.

He wandered through the crowd, catching snatches of conversation and not much else. Eventually he made his way to the front of the crowd, and saw it there; set a couple feet behind a velvet rope, was a museum piece behind glass. A jewellery set, comprised of large dangling earrings, a delicate curving necklace, and an elaborate brooch, all in the same emerald green. Juno didn’t know much about rocks, but he could tell these were pricy. He let out a whistle.

"Having fun?”

Juno jumped, and saw that Rex had shown up behind him, leaning close, a fresh glass in hand. This time it was white wine.

“Just having a look,” Juno said, nodding to the case. “You’re right, this definitely can’t compare to the — what’s it called? The Iris of Saturn?”

“Jupiter,” Rex corrected, seemingly automatically. “This isn’t what I meant, however.” He held Juno’s eyes.

Rex was very, very close.

Juno cleared his throat. “Is there any food here? I’m starving. That took a lot out of me.”

“I’m not sure,” Rex said, glancing around, “shall we have look?”

Cursing his inability to think straight, Juno followed Rex around the edge of the crowd. They glanced down hallways and looked over tables, snatching extra glasses of champagne as they looked. Eventually, they picked off several small canapés, but hadn’t found much else.

“Well,” said Rex finally, “shall we head somewhere else? No point staying here. Know of anywhere nearby that is half-decent?”

“There’s a restaurant around the corner?” Juno offered.

“Excellent,” Rex said, nodding. “Lead the way.”

Juno stuffed his hands into his pockets and for a couple minutes, the only sound was the clicking of their heels against the sidewalk. The night was cool and the street mostly empty, the sounds from the museum fading behind them as the warm light of the street of shops and restaurant approached.

Rex paused, a couple steps from the corner to turn the street. “Thank you for accompanying me this evening.”

“Rex?” Juno said, making a decision. “Can I tell you something?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m not an accompanist.”

Rex laughed, and Juno’s jaw went a little slack. “Oh, goodness. Believe me, I had a guess.”

“You — did?”

“Naturally,” Rex said, leaning against a streetlamp with careless grace. “Dahlia Rose contacted me the day after via email, and I let them know I’d found someone already.”

“You knew?” Juno’s voice shot up almost a full octave. “How?”

“Please,” said Rex, leaning in a little. “I’ve been playing at various opening evenings, museums, palaces, and private parties for several years now. I’ve played with many, many accompanists, and not one of them have ever learned to play an entire piece strenuously by sound. And they all knew what the sustain pedal was for.”

Juno couldn’t help it. He put his head in his hands, his voice muffled. “I can’t believe you let me do it.”

“Oh, you got there in the end. Your playing this evening was half decent, even.” There was a joking tone to the words that took the sting out of them. “And it was marvellous to watch you improve.”

Rex brushed Juno’s chin with a hand, and Juno dropped his hands awkwardly. “Well. I’m glad I didn’t screw up your whole evening.”

“Not at all,” Rex assured him. “Galas are terribly boring without a plus-one. And you’ve been excellent company.” He leaned in, slowly. Juno didn’t move.

Rex kissed him beneath the street lamp, and Juno felt the brush of his dangling earrings against his cheek as Rex’s hands moved to his hips. His teeth nipped Juno’s lip.

They broke apart after a long, long moment, coming up for air. Rex backed away slightly, as if to wait for permission before coming back.

Juno opened his eyes. “Rex,” he said, voice sullen and resigned, “do you want to tell me what these are?” He held up two cards between them, as if that would ward Rex off.

“Oh!” Rex chuckled. “I have no idea! Where did you find them?”

Squinting to read them in the dim light, Juno read, “An ID for Christopher Morales and … the museum director’s key card. In your pocket. In your right hand pocket,” he amended. “I think my key card is in your left. Pretty sure you took it when you kissed me.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean,” Rex said amiably, with a hint of confusion.

With a sigh, Juno leaned forward and dipped a hand into Rex’s other pocket, pulling out the white keycard the security woman had given him a few hours ago, when Juno had arrived.

“Ah,” said Rex, sharp smile back on his face. “That key card. To be fair, you took my ID while kissing back.”

“What’s your game, Rex?” Juno asked, brandishing all three cards in front of him. “If I can even call you that. Or is it Christopher?”

Rex waved a careless hand. “They’re all names, Juno. None of them mean much of anything.”

“That was the first thing that tipped me off,” Juno admitted. “You called me Juno. When you were talking about the Iris of Jupiter. You knew exactly who I was.”

“What does that have to do with any of this?”

“I checked to see which name you had put for me in the program. I was credited as Dahlia Rose, and I noticed you were listed as Duke. That’s the third name I’d heard for you, and that was fishy. And the very neat circle at the top of the case could have been cut by the diamond-tipped glass craft cutter in your violin case. What was the plan, show up to practice last night and cut those emeralds out of their case?”

Rex shrugged, not seeming to care if he was admitting it or not. “I was interrupted in the process.”

“So you talk to the director after your performance, slip his key, and take mine to make sure that if you left a trail, it wouldn’t lead to you.”

“Pseudonyms are valuable resources. Rex is quite useful, I quite like him.”

“Yeah,” said Juno quietly. “So did I.”

They stared at each other, Juno’s knuckles pale from the iron grip he held on the three cards in his palm. They were cutting into his skin.

“So?” he asked.

“What?” Rex inquired. He was leaning against the streetlamp again, careless and calm. “I thought we were going to get dinner.”

“What’s your name then? Duke is a bit melodramatic.”

Rex tutted. “Like I said, pseudonyms are valuable resources, Juno. I have no intention on throwing away another name on an accompanist, no matter how well he plays.”

“I need to know.”

“You might _want_ to know, Juno, like you _wanted_ to learn piano. You didn’t _need_ to, and you certainly don’t _need_ to know now.” Rex leaned back. “What’s in a name, after all? Take your pick. I’ll be whoever you want me to be at dinner tonight.” He winked.

“I want to know who you are.”

“Well,” Rex straightened his jacket, “I hate to disappoint.”

“Alright,” Juno whispered. “Fine.” He stuffed the cards into his pocket. “But I’m taking these.”

“That seems fair. Finders, keepers,” admitted Rex.

“I’m going back to the museum,” Juno said, watching for Rex’s reaction. “And I’m returning the director’s key.”

Rex spread his hands calmly. “Ah, well. It was a lovely evening. I was so looking forward to dinner though. We could always nip around the corner, and discuss all this afterwards? Over drinks, perhaps.”

Something in Juno tugged at him, tugged him closer, but he shook his head, wordless. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He turned away, and started walking.

It took only a few steps before Rex grabbed his arm. “I do mean it, Juno. I had a lovely evening.”

Juno wrenched his arm from Rex’s grasp and kept walking.

 

___

 

The museum was still brightly-lit, and Juno wound his way though the people. They were all several glasses of champagne in now, and the current performance was a pianist playing relatively trite elevator music to accompany the rising tide of the crowd’s noise.

Juno found himself wandering down the original hall, and he swiped his keycard at the door. Rex’s violin in its mislabelled case was gone. Juno did a double take. How could he have gotten here first? He hadn’t taken it with him when they’d walked down the street. The program was still sitting on the table, and Juno snatched it up. There was something written on the back.

_Juno,_

_Hopefully you can forgive my melodrama. Us musicians do have a flair for the dramatic, though my Plan B is certainly over the top. You’ll know it when you hear it._

_Thank you for your time. I do hope we might get to play together again soon; after all, you owe me dinner._

_Yours,_

_Peter Nureyev_

Juno finished the note, looked up, and the fire alarms went off. By the time he’d burst through the door behind the raised stage, nearly trampling the pianist, and cast a wild glance towards the case at the front of the room, he knew what he would see; an empty glass case, a neat circle cut into the side.

Of Peter Nureyev there was no sign, but somehow, over the alarms and the cries of the crowd, Juno was certain he could hear the final few bars of a violin’s dramatic crescendo, a climax with elaborate flair. Or perhaps that was wishful thinking.


End file.
